


heartbeat stuck on repeat

by tisapear



Series: love drunk [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisapear/pseuds/tisapear
Summary: Little brother's so good at indulging him when he thinks he's shit-faced and too out of it to even realize what he's doing. (Dean hasn't been drunk since he was thirteen and stole his father's other-other secret stash of Jack for the very first time, but he's a damn good actor and already got a one-way ticket booked to hell, so he might as well.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: love drunk [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1761214
Comments: 4
Kudos: 65





	heartbeat stuck on repeat

Five doubles on ice in and even baby brother's starting to believe he's at least tipsy. 

Dean exaggerately winks and flirts and calls out invitations. Only at the real pretty ones for now, though, since he's got to start slow or Sammy'll get suspicious. Transition between regular flirting and piss-drunk I'd-stick-it-anywhere indifference is like walking a tightrope, but he's been tooing the line for so long, at this point he's just morbidly curious what the plunge down'd feel like. (His body an insignificant cherry-pie splatter on the ground only an added bonus.) 

Roaming hands and husky whispers and false numbers given away like they're Halloween candy and it's All-You-Can-Eat Friday. 

(The buffet his heart and the customers the desires chipping away at the thing 'til there's nothing left to take.)

Keeps little brother in sight from the corner of his eyes (alwaysalwaysalways) and acts like the bitchfaces thrown his way are closer to a scorned lover's jealousy than a sibling's can't-believe-I-gotta-watch-you-whore-around annoyance. (Self-projection's such a valuable tool.)

Orders drink after drink and throws them down like it's an olympic sport, wills his body into compliance. Welcomes the familar acts of being tipsy and drunk and utterly wasted like an imaginary friend inscripted so deeply into his bones, he might as well be real. (Is what he makes little brother believe, at least, and what Sammy doesn't know won't hurt him.) 

He ends up with an assortment of disgustingly sweet perfume stink nestled deep inside his pores like they're free real estate and Jenna and Shannon and Tanya are ready to refurbish. Pissed off at least a dozen oh-so-beloved significant others in his voyage of breaking supposedly taken hearts, too.

(His own included, while the only one he's ever wanted is left whole. Would cherish it so well, like the most delicate thing 'cause that's what it _is_ , Dean's most precious thing, even when he's got zero claim to it. The owner's made damn sure of _that_ , at least.)

By the time he hollers for his tenth refill, just a little too loud even for the party-all-night-long crowd at 4:30 am, he's ready to enter the final act. Raises his arm, all perfectly-controlled uncoordinated drunk-jerking, and spills the drinks of the two ladies sitting to the left and right of him. (Boxing him in in hopes of a once-in-a-lifetime threesome, as if he didn't see them come in with their husbands-boyfriends-whatever now left forgotten in the corner. Might be a sicko on account of wanting to fuck his baby brother's brains out, but at least he's no longer a damn cheater—sorry, Amanda, he's learned his lesson.) 

Bartender sends him a dirty look while the ladies start dabbing at his girly fruit-drink-stained jeans, just a l _iiiiii_ ttle too close to his dick. But he's supposed to be so black-out drunk that he wouldn't know his ass from his face, and on top of that in want of a good lay, so he simply grins, liquor-giddy and braincells-drowned-stupid. Down the road of won't-remember-anything hangover 'cause it will make Sammy all that more compliant later on.

Must be five seconds away from being bodily thrown out, either by the bartender himself or the ladies' discared men. Sends the latter a silly grin and wriggles his fingers in their direction, relishes in the jealous faces 'cause _oh_ , does he know that expression, knows it all too well, icky-sticky fingers on his little brother where they've got no business being got that one permanently stuck to his face. 

Two seconds and little Sammy hurries over to keep his drunkard brother out of trouble. Hauls Dean from the barstool in one swift motion like he weighs nothing. (Shouldn't be an insta turn-on just how easily not-so-little-anymore Sammy can manhandle him, could manhandle him into submission to do his every bidding, but it _is_ , and ah, what the hell.)

Sam's got his placating-puppy-face on, fished it out of his mental pocket like it's a hat he can put on whenever the need arises. (Usually gets it out for Dean because big bro's a pro at screwing up.)

"Sorry, man," Sam starts, actually manages to lace honest regret into his voice. Cleans up big brother's messes like it's nobodies business 'cause he's been doing it all his life, and that's just one more will-they-ever-stop-coming reason for Dean to put on his 'Why I'll never deserve my brother' list. (Started that one early, five years old and unable to protect Sam from Daddy's grief. Failure right from the beginning, and why Dad didn't just let him burn up back with Mom is a constant hammering at the back of his mind.)

"He's had a rough week, found his girl in bed with his best buddy. She didn't even feel guilty when he saw them going at it in their bed." Wide eyes imploring for understanding, and the bartender's still gruff around the edges, but seems to fall for the earnestness just like everyone else. Just as Dean has, ages ago and this morning. Swallows Sam's little excursion into storytelling up like a good little civilian, and who can blame him? Sammy tells 'em so well, maybe he'll spin Dean a fairytale next if he asks pretty please. All Brothers Grimm stuff, though, once he finds out about the dirtywrongsick how-could-you things big brother wants to do to him, when he sees innocent Sammy sleeping full of misplaced trust only five feet over in the other bed, floppy hair and even breaths and, oh dear, that sleepy shuffling made his t-shirt ride up a lil' bit, thank you for the meal, could eat that moonlight-shadowed sliver of I-dare-you skin right up.

(Dean is Dean is Dean and there's no happy endings for monsters like him. Special place reserved in hell for his kind, and maybe the brothers had it right when they scratched out the prince's eyes 'cause the cloying ink dripping from every glance Dean dares to steal of pure baby brother silhouettes burns tarnishes into Sammy's skin no sweet girl's touch will ever be able to erase.)

Spurned on by Sam's story, the ladies start cooing their sympathies, _oh, you poor thing, why don't you come with us and let us comfort you_ -whispers accompanying their spoken ruth. Sam only shuffles Dean behind him, as if to shield him from their advances, his hold around Dean's waist getting just a tad tighter. Makes Dean's heart go boom 'cause what if, what if? 

"Just get 'im out of my bar. Guy's been causing trouble all night." Bartender guy pointedly doesn't look at the call-me-soon and how-dare-you-that's-my-girl faces scattered all around them.

And Dean, well, Dean's good at ignoring his problems. Always has been. Simply lets himself fall against Sam, makes his bones wobbly and shaky so there's excuses on end. Burrows himself in forbidden-fruit baby-brother-smell with only the usual amount of god-just-throw-yourself-off-a-cliff-already guilt. 

Nose firmly planted against a warm neck, right over the pulse point. (So _easy_ to imagine the heart steadily beating away there is doing so just for him).

Breathes out wet against warm flesh and savors the full-body shudder going through little brother's lanky body. (Sinners and saints and there's no penance high enough to rid Dean of his dirty thoughts, so he might as well enjoy the underhanded bones life likes to throw his way—not enough to ever satisfy the itch, but just the right amount that he'll never be able to let go.) 

"Yeah, uh—sure man. Here, that should about cover it." Sam starts fumbling for the leftover notes stuck deep in his back pocket, even though he's got his arms full of deadweight older brother.

Dean's been called a lot of things this night alone, but one to pass up an opportunity this impossible to resist ain't one of 'em, so he reaches behind them and sticks his fingers down Sammy's pocket. And if he cops a feel, grabs that firm ass hidden behind a layer of worn-out denim a little too long to be an accident? He's drunk as balls and unsteady on his feet and the world's a blurry figment of imagination in front of his eyes, cut him some slack, man. (Got excuses on hand like they're aces up his sleeves.)

Pink 'round Sam's nose makes him wanna smirk filthy and full of promises, but instead he just gives him a questioning look, throws in a little confusion for the hell of it, before clumsily slapping the crumpled bills on top of the dark-stained counter. (Perfect matephor for his soul, almost all swallowed up by the sickness of his mind.)

Noises around them headache-inducing and can't-even-hear-mysef-think loud, but if he'd close his eyes, Dean thinks, maybe he'd be able to hear the pitter-patterning of Sammy's little rabbit heart. Maybe even talk himself into thinking it's 'cause of entirely non-too-brotherly feelings rather than anger at having to take care of his supposed caretaker. 

(Could take such _good_ care of you, Sammy, mark you up and take you apart and make you _sing_ —) 

Sam leads him outta the shitty hole in the wall bar and Dean can't resist—turns his head back around one last time and winks at the ladies surely thinking he got denied a night of fun when really he's leaving with the only person he's ever loved. 

Through the door and down the alley and show's on, everyone. Grab your popcorn, kiddos, and break a leg or die trying. 

Hand slips so easily under little brother's too-short hoodie, fingers roaming over the muscled back like it's the first time and not the nth, and _oooh_ — **goosebumps.**

Saliva coats his mouth like he won the lottery and is already imagining all the delicious food he's gonna buy, when really it's a picture of Sammy stark naked and at Dean's mercy. Every indent and dip and curve and all the goosebumps grazing his skin only Dean's to explore, to worship. He'd count them one by one and claim every last one as his own 'cause if Sammy were to give himself over to Dean, body, mind and soul? 

he'd  
never  
let  
him  
go

Would consume every inch and every molecule and every _atom_ so Sam could never even _think_ of leaving him again. Nuh-uh, sorry buddy, burned the recipe, no taksies backsies. Wrote his name all over in permanent marker like he's four again and has no self-restraint. (Never had that to begin with, but he's good at pretending.) 

"Dean," Sam hisses, so obviously supposed to be a warning to lay off, but Sammy's got no clue, has no fucking _idea_ just how much anything he does turns Dean on. (How disgustingly in love Dean's been since he was six and first thought _oh, I wouldn't just lay down my life for you, I'd burn down the whole damn world._ )

Moves his hand down Sam's waistband and so close to treasured hills, and, damn, that's too much, mayday mayday houston got a problem—

'cept Sam doesn't move, doesn't slap the offending appendage away like Dean expected him to, and.

And he's shivering— _quivering_. Shaking like a damn leaf, Dean's hand still on his ass, and when Dean starts nosing at Sam's cheek as though he just wanted to look at his face and check what's the hold up but estimated something wrong, the thing's burning hot. Wannabe virgin-blush so close, Dean wants to lick it up and let the taste linger, and

Oh.

Sam's probably imagining some pretty girl being all daring out in public, but, _Dean doesn't care_ , is so far past caring he could—

angle his head just right and press his lips up against Sammy's. Stare into little brother's what's-going-on wide eyes, unblinking, one oh god, two so sweet, three still as good as he remembers, four please god please lemme have just this one thing let this never end please oh—

Steps back and giggles. Nothin' out there that'd ever convince Sam of Dean's intoxicated state like seeing his macho-american-man big brother giggle as if he's a lovesick school girl on speed. (Funny how exhilaration makes the sound almost come off as genuine, less make-believe for charade's sake and more straight-from-the-heart.)

Tongue hot and heavy in his mouth and he sweeps it over his lips, presses secret-place warm fingers deep into his cheek. Shitty taste of off-brand beer from Sammy's mouth the sweetest satisfaction. 

Got a taste for the first time in weeks and suddenly, resisting seems ludicrous. Like a waste of time 'cause what's he got left to lose anyway? (Sammy, but sooner or later little brother will leave him anyway. 'S just a matter of time, and maybe Dean's sick of waiting, maybe he's being self-destructive. Can't have a good thing without destroying it, after all that's not his style.)

So he backs Sam up against the wall, still clumsily, still like he's wasted beyond repair. Keep it up so you can play it off later on. Breath hot against Sam's face and Dean can't quite make out his expression. Lets his lips glide over a baby soft cheek, shaved this morning, Sam in just a towel staring into the shitty, cracked bathroom mirror, all concentrated while he carefully pulled the princess-pink disposable razor up and down and up and down.

Dean whispers words, whispers _pretty_ and _beautiful_ and _gorgeous_ , everything he's told girls before and meant at night but not come morning, except when it comes to Sam they're always true, always have been, ever since Dean can remember. Knobby knees and red elbows just as enticing as the muscled back and the stubbly cheeks.

"C'mon man, cut it out." Sam's hand is pressing against Dean's chest now, right next to his heart. Shoves him away, just a little, just far enough that his breath hits Dean's cheek instead of his lips. Sam's eyes are half-lidded and his fingers unsure against Dean's chest, and where others would back off, Dean _sees_ , endless possibilites for more, so close he could almost believe he's allowed to _have_.

Grabs Sam's hand and intervines their fingers, places a kiss upon every still-scraped knuckle.

"Y's're 'bout tha', c'llege boy?" 

Words slurred and beaten down, all used up, just like him. Lets the chopped off parts get lost in his mouth since they'll come in handy later on. (Make his masquerade that much more believable.)

He puts his other hand on Sam's neck, lets his thumb circle around. Works out the knots, and illicit situation or no, Sam immediately relaxes under his brother's gentle touch, thumb rubbing so tenderly over the wound left from last week's ghost hunt. Presses in deep and when Sam lets out a hiss, barely audible through tightly gritted teeth, Dean eats it up. Slick lips on slick lips and Sam doesn't resist, this time, not even when Dean starts tongueing at his teeth. Gets to explore closed off caverns just long enough that he gets a little taste of the stale mint drops Sam found in the Impala this morning, probably older than even Dean. 

Sam twists his head, Dean's lips sliding down to his jaw. Such an obvious _enough now_ , but Dean's a rule breaker at heart, can't resist sucking at the heated skin and leaving one last mark. Hitch in Sammy's breath, Dean's satisfied smirk against the love-red spot. Might fade in time but the pretty picture will last forever in Dean's desperate mind.

When Sam finally leads them back to the motel, Dean doesn't protest. Just keeps up his consistent mumbling of love confessions that will never be acknowledged as the admissions they are.

He lets his eyes flutter closed and wonders what Sam will say in the morning, when Dean's 'hungover' and innocently staring at the squint-and-you-might-see-it bruise.

_Got some action last night, little brother?_

(Shame and denial and stuttered excuses suit Sammy so well, and truths are just stupid wish-fulfillments for less burdened men anyway.)

**Author's Note:**

> there's probably so many typos in here lol


End file.
